Time for Bed

My husband just came home and ruined the little cave I have built tonight. It’s not his fault, he has a right to come home.

My cave consists of a glass of wine, putting head phones in the computer, listening to my iTunes and writing about what usually starts out as nothing and sometimes ends up as something.

I’ve been in my cave a lot more than usual lately because Allison has been at a friend’s for a week.  It’s been a very comfortable and well-deserved hibernation for me.   Now, the time is getting later and later to start though because of summer break. Allison’s bedtime for school used to begin at 8:30 pm or so and now it is 9:30 – 10:00. Actually, I have been trying to remember to call it “time for sleep” because “time for bed” sounds too babyish and Allison is certainly not a baby as I’m constantly being reprimanded for. That doesn’t sound right to her either and I get an eye roll.

How about “time to go to bed”, “time to retire” or maybe she would rather it be what my mother called it for years “time for bobos”? No, that shouldn’t generate an eye roll or a sound like a tween cat coughing up a hair ball!






“Cute Cat” video giggles, the best sound to come from my 11-year-old all year.


Lovely Children

My son, unfortunately, falls into the category of being “unintuitive”. He is sensitive, but things have to be pointed out to him. There is nothing wrong with it as long as the female in his life doesn’t mind either.

When my friend died last week it hit me pretty hard. After visiting her and her family that day I came home and holed up in my room with some wine and my phone. I was feeling a little sorry for myself because Emily and my sister Ellen weren’t there. They are always there for me, but they weren’t physically there and I really could have used them. I told Emily on the phone that I really needed a hug.

I didn’t realize until I heard a text buzz that Tristan was charging his phone in my room. I instinctively looked over and read that it was from Emily. She wrote “go in and give mom a hug, she really needs one”.

Just then, Tristan came in and got his phone. I wondered how long it would take him to come back after reading his texts.

Ten minutes went by when Tristan knocked. He came in and sat in bed with me. He asked me to tell him what happened that day. I told him everything. He held my hand and then gave me a hug.

I hope I’ve always given them what they needed the way they just gave me what I needed.

Helicopter Parent

A few months back I had written “A Little Taste of Crazy” where the campus monitor and I were searching the grassy knoll behind the school for Allison’s phone.

If I wasn’t then I am now officially a “helicopter parent”.

This time Allison lost her violin.  We went down to the orchestra room to look for it.  We checked among all of the other violins.  Allison saw it, but I said it wasn’t the hers because it didn’t have the correct tags.

The violin was rented and would cost me $340 to replace, so I was highly motivated to find it. I started out asking people as they passed by my desk and in the hallways.  That then escalated to sending out a school wide email.  This went on for two days.

Finally I called the rental place and asked for the serial numbers thinking another student may have taken the wrong violin.  I went down to the cupboard again in the orchestra room.  This is the part you’re going to love…it was there all the time!!! I felt terrible and apologized profusely to Allison.

I had to slink around the school avoiding the inevitable question, “Have you found Allison’s violin yet?” I would try to wiggle out of the question as best as I could with anemic answers such as, “Yes, thanks.” and if they asked where, I would tell most of the truth saying, “in the music room’s cupboard.”

Then I realized what I had been doing.  The “absence” of detail on my part was letting them assume it was Allison’s fault!

I’m going to hell.

P.S.  In good conscience I did start to elaborate as much as necessary saying something like, “It was there all along, I didn’t see it. I don’t want to talk about it”.

P.S.S.  Still going to hell.

The Space Between

“Oh, no.  That’s too bad, I haven’t seen it.”

That is what I will say to my daughter when she notices her rival school’s t-shirt is missing.  She says she doesn’t care if the other kids will make comments or say something. What she doesn’t realize is that I have lived way longer than she has and I know these things will hurt.

It’s almost the same as the “nice rack” moose t-shirt exploiting women’s breasts that was inexplicably lost behind the space between the dryer and the wall until a month ago when it was miraculously found.  By then it was way too small for Tristan to wear anymore.  Darn.  Too bad.

Maybe we’ll find Allison’s t-shirt in the space between the wall and my dresser in a couple of years too.